


Isn't it Lovely Coming Home, Too?

by wintersfirstfire



Category: Moominvalley (Cartoon 2019), Mumintroll | Moomins Series - Tove Jansson
Genre: Fluff, Growing Up, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sailing, Winter, snufmin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-12
Updated: 2020-09-02
Packaged: 2021-03-06 06:35:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25859071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wintersfirstfire/pseuds/wintersfirstfire
Summary: Amongst the white, he saw a very familiar, pointy green hat.
Relationships: Mumintrollet | Moomintroll & Snusmumriken | Snufkin, Mumintrollet | Moomintroll/Snusmumriken | Snufkin
Comments: 2
Kudos: 69





	1. Chapter 1

_Not too far now_ , came the voice. Soft; more hushed and gentle than the lapping of saltwater upon the wood, worn from travel, yet not an ounce of exhaustion.

And the voice was right - or, more so, it’s owner - as a grey and yellow sky highlighted the near horizon; the misty cove of Moominvalley.

Of home.

And the voice, the owner, _Moomin_ , smiled a genuine smile. One that crinkled his eyes in the smallest way; the type not overly pronounced, but with the most worth, the most emotion, all kept hidden so only the closest of people could recognise it.

Close people. Friends, _family_. _Mamma, Pappa_.

An icy breeze guided the bow as it lugged dark clouds behind it, clouds beckoning the onslaught of of a heavy winter. But, nestled in the back and steering the helm, Moomin was not afraid. He barely paid notice to the rolling darkness.

Just two seasons ago, when the air was warm and flowers littered the fields, the troll would never have dreamed of being alone a night, let alone several.

And yet, here he was, miles and miles from his family, yet minutes away from their home. And he didn’t mind it.

Since their Autumn departure, Moomin had learnt more of his family, of fear and uncertainty where originally was stability. He’d faced the Groke; and possibly, something inside himself.

A sigh left his body, breath dancing in the cold.

 _Not too far now_.

The troll wasn’t sure what was next; where was next, but he was ready. Ready to move, to seek. The childlike excitement was not there, bouncing off the walls of his chest. In its place, instead, was wanderlust.

The first trip gave its fair share of advice, but since his solitary journey, after warm hugs and teary kisses, Moomin had learnt to befriend the sea, to love the night, adore its stars. They boy had been allowed to learn about himself. To be his only company, the only anchor to hold belonging to the boat.

He had learnt how to let go.

Moomin had learnt how to be alone.

It had calmed the boy down, set in a travellers weariness he wasn’t sure would wash away. But the blue of his eyes remained bright.

He could see the dock, the hibernating trees, and the snow. 

The clouds were all around, the bright light atop the mast his only indication of existence within the thick fog.

The troll felt right in his lessons, proud at his newfound peace in self-company. Because now the winters did not hurt so much, or weigh dread heavy in his heart; fear that a familiar tune would not return to the valley.

He stood steadily, pulling in the sails.

Moomin felt assured, for the troll knew he’d return - when he was ready. Moomin has his own journeys to partake on, in the meantime.

He dropped the anchor, brine splashing his ruffled coat.

That familiar green hat would meet him once again. Even if it took many seasons. _To care about something meant to let it go, after all_.

A whiff of home struck nostalgia into Moomin, and he looked up to greet the hibernating valley.

Amongst the white, he saw a very familiar, pointy green hat.


	2. 2

Snufkin had all but charged the moment he heard the news, snow crunching beneath the weight of his leather boots, pack bouncing with every stride. Running felt all too familiar at this point, déjà vu striking a nerve; although this time, the young vagabond was sure the destination would not mimic that awful dream.

It felt strange, to say the least. Not the dead twigs scratching his face, or the icy air turning his nose red, he was used to all of this – years of travel brought comfort in such experiences. What tangled the boy’s thoughts was his newly acknowledged urgency to be around someone, to run _towards_ them, rather than away; and in Winter, of all seasons!

He huffed, lungs burning in the cold.

\---

He thought he had needed more time alone, that leaving in the Summer had been a good indication to himself of that, despite the sour taste Moomin’s frown had left upon his palate.

The journey itself had felt completed, to say the least. Snufkin had found what he needed to, playing melodies alone by the fire, watching the fireflies dance. He _had_ enjoyed being alone, speaking to no one for days at a time.

And yet, come the slowly departing Autumn, the mumrik returned to the valley.

\---

Snufkin reached the top of a hill, seeing the water through the fog. He began to remember.

\---

The nomad was not sure what to expect, coming back so late into the year, but he couldn’t stop his mind from wandering, creating beautiful scenarios. Daydreaming of arriving at the door of that blue house, smoke bellowing from the chimney, carrying the mesmerising smell of Moominmamma’s home cooking.

He’d be met at the door by Moomin – perhaps, even embraced (though Snufkin would never admit to such thoughts) – and ushered in, sat on the couch to enjoy tea and tell tales of his travels. He’d be welcomed by warmth.

Empty coldness greeted the mumrik, instead, and whoever else had been searching for the missing family. No pastries tickled his nose as he walked up the creaking stairs. No Moomin pulled him in.

The house was hollow, the worst kind of hollow. One that only existed upon entering a still thing, a lifeless thing, that should’ve been _bundling_ , with rumbling life evident in every corner. It set a pit upon the stomach, one that said _this place was never meant to be in such a state_. The hearth had no heart, dust only emphasising the lack of footprints upon the floorboards. The most welcoming home in the valley was void of any welcome, and Snufkin could not stop the weight that pulled his heart down, setting an honest frown upon the boy’s face.

Turning around for the door, seeing the crowd of lost and confused souls, that only deepened the sodden mood. The boy wanted nothing more, in that moment of heartache and yearning, to slip out the door. Sit by a decomposing trunk and let the night carry his sore thoughts.

But Snufkin recognised the tearful look within their eyes, uncertainty flickering their pupils like a fly trapped in a jar. The nomad had seen it many times, greeting him in rain puddles and ponds.

_What would the Moomin’s do?_

Empathy kicked down a layer of bricks and he made a terribly responsible decision to stay within the house, getting his hands dirty with other people’s issues. But if _Moomin_ could bring such a settling sense of real comfort, then by good grace, why couldn’t Snufkin!

So with a light smile and softened eyes, determination flooded Snufkin’s actions. He would turn the gutted blue husk back into a house. Back into a _home_.

\---

The mumrik slid down the hill, heart racing with his own feet to make it to the shoreline.

\---

He had never expected it to be easy, but he never expected this level of difficulty, either. The days where everybody refused to cooperate, with a sour mood hung about their heads – those were the days that reminded Snufkin of why he travelled alone. Absolute silence; no bitter squabbling to ruin the wonderful day.

And the _routine_! Breakfast, chores, lunch, afternoon nap! It was repetitive and constricting to the nomad. Sharing a house took much adjustments he’d never wanted to make; partaking in small talk of the weather and spring petunias was became draining when the topics turned to him.

The noises of life; snoring and sneezing and fidgeting, were _infuriating_ , and no matter where Snufkin went, a beating heart was already present.

He’d missed his tent many times, the first days in the house. He’d wished for silence and solitude, asking himself why he was _cooped up inside, instead of wandering the open road_.

And then, he awoke one day, feeling more rested than usual. The aroma of fresh pancakes filled the room, drew him to the kitchen table, occupied by the temporary residents. He sat without second thought.

They spoke of nothing and everything, welcoming his input every so often; he gave it, without hesitation and without discomfort.

That morning, they laughed and grumbled and screamed over warm pancakes.

Content filled Snufkin’s stomach next to the breakfast treat. It felt out-of-place; one the mumrik had only felt in either in the Spring, or in solitude. But the latter had become rarer and rarer, and the boy remembered why he’d returned in the Winter.

These feelings became more and more frequent. Deathly routine became intriguing to the vagabond, and he found himself observing the different lives of his roommates; asking Mrs Fillyjonk about her strict and precise cleaning – offering to help where she’d allow it, or eavesdropping on Muskrat’s strange philosophies.

What started as harrowing nuances of constriction, became bittersweet reminders of constant presence; a baffling conversation, or a music-filled night together waited around every corner.

It was those nights of cheer and chatter that Snufkin found himself enjoying the most. Where dim fairy lights adorned relaxed faces; the day’s arguments long past resolved over bellies full of fish stew. Snufkin’s breezy melody danced with the talking, and the movement, and the lit candles.

And he realized, from his corner by the staircase, that the Moominhouse was alive again.

And quite like the house, _Snufkin had learned to let people in_.

\--

Those nights together were nice for Snufkin, for they distracted his mind. But come bedtime, and the nomad’s return to his tent, and the thoughts hung like mist. The house was a home again, Snufkin was thankful for that. But, while he’d made room for other people, they did not fill up the missing part in the boy’s heart. He didn’t want them to, either. For that place, he now acknowledged, was special for someone who felt millions of miles away.

Snufkin sighed, for its all he could do.

\--

Time moved, as it always does, and the day came for the people to return to their homes. Winter had well and truly arrived. Goodbyes were said and inside jokes were shared, before their shared living became memories of their separate lives. They’d found solace in the House, nestled in deep within the Valley, as they always did.

Snufkin would be lying if he said he hadn’t done the same. He’d also be lying if he said he didn’t long for Moomin’s annual goodbyes. Or maybe, he just yearned for the troll’s presence.

_But_ , he stood straight from his leaning position, shoulders slumping, _that would have to wait._

Snufkin knew the importance of travel and independence, _it brings a sense of self no other experience could_.

He began his departure, resting one last glance upon the home, standing loyally, awaiting the arrival of its owners.

_And if that means I have to wait, one winter or a hundred winters, so be it._ And off he went down the faded dirt path, not ready for this year’s journey. It was silent, and then

“They’re back!”

It wasn’t.

\---

And so, here was the lone vagabond, twenty feet from the shore and still running. He reached the edge of the tree line, feet just meeting the sand. And then his hands were on his thighs as he hunched over, heaving for breath in the freezing air. Through wheezing lungs, the mumrik returned his attention to the salty waters.

The burning glow of an oil lamp singed the heavy fog, that was the first thing he noticed. The second was a boat, bobbing humbly next to the old dock.

And the third was a figure upon the boat, hauling an anchor into the water.

Snufkin’s breath hitched.

It seemed the unmistakable figure noticed, looking up from his task with a sigh. His blue eyes fell directly upon Snufkin, still stuck like a frightened deer. And then those blue eyes widened, far larger than Snufkin had ever seen them.

They were tired, fare more so than when the nomad had last seen them, but the sky-blue shimmer remained unforgettable, for it was only Moomintroll’s eyes that could shine in such a brilliant way.

“Snufkin?” the voice was gentle, of slight disbelief, as Moomintroll climbed out of his boat. He edged closer to the frozen mumrik.

Snufkin felt his legs uncharacteristically shake. He didn’t know what to do, and as such, had decided to react in a similar fashion as a rock. Perhaps he would give a simple _hey there, Moomintroll,_ wave a small wave and then run into the woods.

He looked at his friend again – his white winter coat, much more ragged than usual. And his wonderful blue eyes. and the fact that the troll was here, and not a million miles away.

Something pushed against Snufkin’s ribcage, sending his bag slumping to the sand with a thud. He couldn’t stop the smile from filling his cheeks, or the tears from filling his eyes.

“Moomintroll!”

\---

It was the loudest he’d ever spoke, and Moomintroll looked startled when the boy began running towards him. Shock did not last long, as the troll shuffled along, and with a quiet “Snufkin,” the two collided, meeting where the dock greeted the sand.

The warm fur engulfed Snufkin’s laughter and sobs. The green coat muffled Moomin’s jagged breath and tired giggles. Both welcomed the other so tightly, and fit so perfectly, and it felt like they’d last seen one another over a lifetime ago.

Both legs gave in, and the nestled pair gently knelt to the sandy ground. No words were spoken in that embrace, and yet, both boys understood the differing Autumns the other had experienced.

The two travellers pulled apart, if only to see the others features. The changes and the persistent aspects no external factor could shift. Moomin’s kindness and Snufkin’s wisdom. Tears lined both their faces; fear dissolving to make room for blessed joy and content.

_Snufkin would not have to wait. Moomin would not have to search._

They sat there, simply enjoying the warm presence of the other.

“There is so much world out there,” came Moomin’s voice, soft and nice, “I see now, why you want to see it.” He looked to the mumrik, who looked at their hands.

“I…kept the home warm,” Snufkin spoke through drying tears. Moomin’s head tilted slightly.

“In the Autumn, I came back to the valley. To see you all before Winter,” he paused, “you weren’t there, but I- we, the Valley..we kept the house warm.” The boy’s gaze did not leave the blue. It was not a statement of blame, set to cause guilt. It was simply the truth.

“I didn’t think you would be here when I got off that boat,” was the reply.

“I thought I was going to have to search the world to find you.” The sentence gave Snufkin’s chest a strange and tingly feeling.

“I would’ve waited until the Spring for you to come back.” Moomin’s heart skipped a beat.

Moomin stood up, pulling Snufkin with him. He’d grown taller since the Summer, and Snufkin now realised his new height.

“Let’s go to the house, we wouldn’t want that fire you lit to burn out, now,” spoke Moomin, pulling his Snufkin gently along. He followed, picking up his discarded pack. “Of course!” Snufkin smiled softly, “You must be eager to see your home.”

“Oh no, Snufkin,” Moomin sighed, looking to the boy with such fondness in his eyes, the other felt he might melt, “I think I already _am_ home.”

And off the two continued, hands locked in peace, for neither felt the need to let in goodbyes, or let loved ones go.

**Author's Note:**

> Chapter 1 of 2.


End file.
